


The Lucky Ones

by orphan_account



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 07:08:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2100243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Francis and Mary meet for the first time and one time they meet for the last</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lucky Ones

**Author's Note:**

> okay so the third one is kinda cheating but whatever deal with it.

_August 1548 // Brittany, France_

Mary Stuart is itchy.

But she can’t fidget because queens don’t fidget. At least, that’s what her governess told her as they waited for the train of French carriages to meet them by their ship.

Mary sighs, shifting every so slightly in her tight dress. Back in Scotland, she wore looser clothes when her mother let her but all the dresses her maids packed have tight corsets and tighter necks. _And_ to top it off, her hair is coming out of the complicated bun her lady in waiting made that morning on the boat. She can feel a lock of hair falling down her neck and resists the urge to move it.

“Stop moving, your grace,” her governess hisses and Mary rolls her eyes. All her governess does is hiss.

“They’re not here _yet_ ,” Mary whines.

“Don’t whine,” the older woman says sternly and Mary pouts, itching her back just to spite her.

“We’re already engaged,” she mutters. “He can’t unengage us.”

“Yes, he can, and he will if you keep this up,” her governess says. Mary huffs and turns away from her companion and craning her neck to see any hint of a carriage.

Mary knows she’s only a six-year-old girl, but she’s a queen and queens do not wait on anybody. When she voices this, her governess sighs tiredly. It seems all everyone does is sigh tiredly at her these days.

“Yes, but Francis is the dauphin, and his parents are the king and queen of France. They have every right to show up when they want.”

“Still rude,” she mutters and but before her governess can say anything, the distinct sound of a horse and carriage reaches their ears. Her governess straightens her posture after tucking a loose lock of hair behind Mary’s ear.

“You must be perfect for this, your grace,” she says and Mary nods timidly. The carriage finally stops before them and Mary can hear her heart slamming away in her chest and feel the butterflies flying in her stomach. A page scurries to the door quickly, putting down a step stool and opening the door. The queen is out first, her blond hair piled on the top of her head. She examines Mary carefully and Mary fights to keep still. The king barely looks at her when he steps out, turning as his son pokes his head out. His blond hair is messy and his limbs are long and gangly. His clothes are stiff, nearly as stiff as Mary's, it looks like. He comes before her, muttering in French about how nice it is to meet her and kissing her hand lightly. She returns the pleasantries and smiles at him like she's supposed to, like she was taught too.

Until she doesn't.

“You’re skinny for a prince,” she blurts out before she can stop herself. He gapes at her.

“You’re short for a queen,” he snaps back with ease.

“ _Francis_ ,” Queen Catherine chastises, putting a hand on his shoulder. Francis looks up to see his mother’s disapproving look. His father looks stony and cold as Francis’s gaze flickers down, a definably ashamed and hurt look on his face. Mary suddenly regrets calling him skinny. Not much more is said between the two as they are ushered into French carriages.

“I’m sorry I called you skinny,” she says when the carriage jerks into motion.

“I’m sorry I called you short,” he replies, meeting her brown eyes with his blue.

“Are France and Scotland at peace now?” she asks, a smile tugging at her lips and she swears he looks less solemn.

“Of course,” he says. “As they will be always.”

 

* * *

 

 

_May 1927 // New York City, USA_

“We’ll be out late, darling, so don’t wait up for us,” Marie de Guise says to her daughter as she takes a lock of her short hair between her fingers. “Are you sure about this hair?”

“Mother, if I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t have gotten it,” Mary Stuart replies, rolling her eyes and pulling away. Her mother sighs tiredly and looks rather fed up with it all.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” she says and leaves Mary on her bed reading. Mary accepts her father’s kiss and watches as they leave her room, listening carefully to their footfalls on the stairs of their townhouse. She can hear them talking to the servants and the shutting of the door closely behind. The minute she hears the car pull away, she springs to her feet, opening the window to her small balcony.

“I thought they’d never leave!” her best friend Kenna says as she steps inside the room, dusting off her dress. The dress falls just below her knees, shorter than usual. It has two layers, the lower one a cream color with a sheer black lace over it. Kenna looks stunning with her bejeweled headband and dark eye makeup.

“You’ve got a shorter dress this time,” Mary notes, looking her friend up and down. Kenna merely shrugs, the idea of disapproval from parents a source of excitement. But Marie and James are not there, instead their on their way across the city without any knowledge of their daughter’s plans.

“Hurry up and get dressed so we can leave,” says Kenna, sitting at Mary’s vanity and touching up her makeup. Mary follows her friend’s guidance and pulls out her deep maroon dress from the back of her closet so her mother doesn’t notice it. She can just imagine her mother’s face seeing the sleeveless dress with embroidery along the swooping neckline and rising hemline. The sash is made of a darker red fabric, matching the embroidery, and falls low on her hips. She slips it on quickly, adjusting it as she walks over to her vanity and shoos Kenna away. She has Kenna arrange her hair around a headband as she begins the familiar process of putting on her makeup.

“Hurry up, we don’t want them to send us away,” Kenna says, tapping her foot fast. Mary rolls her eyes but nonetheless sets her brush down, examining her reflection quickly before following Kenna out of the room. Kenna stops her at the door, rummaging through her purse. “Here, some liquid courage.”

She hands her a small silver flask with an engraving on the top. Mary twists the cap off and skillfully takes the right amount. She flinches at the familiar burning in her throat but passes the flask to back to Kenna. Kenna throws her head back with the drink and slides it back in before opening the door quietly, the two slipping into the dark unnoticed.

 

 

 

Mary leaves the cab first, handing the cabbie a bill and thanking him quickly. From the outside, the Stork Club looks like any other lounge in Manhattan but the empty street around them and suited man at the door tell her that this is the right place. She and Kenna approach the door confidently, Kenna swinging her hips just so.

“Sorry, ladies, your dancing and dresses aren’t wanted here,” he says in a gruff voice.

“Funny,” Kenna says dryly. “But we’re not bug-eyed betties.”

He raises an eyebrow and steps out of the way, giving them passage into the lobby. Kenna smiles up at him before looking both ways and slipping inside. Mary does the same and grins at her once they’re in. It’s silent, of course, and Mary knows it will be silent until they walk in the actual bar. They follow the familiar winding hallways until they reach a stairwell and follow it down. It’s only now that the floor begins to vibrate with the music below and Mary can feel the excitement growing in her stomach, something that’s always accompanied her each time no matter how often she comes.

There’s a rather nondescript wooden door at the end of the stairs, with the words “boiler room” painted on in block letters. Neither Mary nor Kenna flinches at the misnomer and they swing open the door into the actual bar.

It’s after nine, so the speakeasy is in full swing, girls dancing in the center of the room and a band playing in the corner. Kenna and Mary approach the bar, smiling at the bartender as they find seats.

“The usual?” he asks and they nod. Sebastian winks at Kenna, who pretends she doesn’t notice and begins mixing two Manhattans straight up. He slides them across the bar before heading to the other end to greet other patrons. Mary and Kenna both take sips at the same time, turning to look over the crowd.

“There’s a new band tonight,” Mary says, and Kenna cranes her neck to look.

“The piano boy is absolutely _yummy_ ,” Kenna says approvingly.

“So much for Sebastian then,” Mary says, laughing.

“Bash and I have an agreement. He’s a bartender, I don’t expect him to stay faithful. Take one look at me and say I’m going to be monogamous. The piano boy’s all yours. Your bluenose mother would have a fit.”

“’ _Mary Stuart, you are supposed to marry a kind respectable man who can take care of you! Some low class piano player does not deserve the time of day from you,’_ ” Mary imitates in a high voice amongst Kenna’s peals of laughter. “I just might neck with him just to spite her.”

“I would _love_ to see your mother’s face when she finds out you carried a torch for a piano player,” her friend says, polishing off her Manhattan and waving Sebastian over for another. Mary does the same when she sees Kenna trade hers in and accepts the second drink without much thought. “She already hates me.”

“She just hates you because she thinks you’re a bad influence.”

“I _am_ a bad influence. Look what you’re wearing! Look where we are. Hell, look at your hair!” Kenna finds that hilariously funny apparently and knocks back the rest of the drink, grabbing Mary’s hand. “Come on, let’s dance.”

 

 

 

“Go talk to him,” Kenna says as they collapse onto the bar stools and signal for another drink.

“Who?”

“The piano boy obviously. He was looking at you before we went dancing.”

Mary hides her smile as she takes a sip.

“This is your fourth Manhattan and you still don’t have the courage?” her friend practically yells while Mary just shrugs and turns away, a small smile on her face. “Look, I’m obviously half-seas over drunk and I’m obviously going home with Sebastian but you’re still a boring debutante. Live a little!”

Of course, Kenna knows Mary wasn’t boring—in fact it was Mary who proposed getting their hair cut short—but it’s the only way to motivate her to do anything she wouldn’t normally do. Mary is above all prideful and impulsive. All Kenna has to do was appeal to that side of her and get her to have some fun.

Sure enough, Mary finishes her drink, pushing it back towards Sebastian and hops off her barstool to walk towards the piano.

“’Atta girl!” Kenna calls after her right as a smarmy looking twenty-something approaches her.

“Hey, angel,” he says, leaning towards her, his breath smelling of cigarettes and whiskey.

“Go chase yourself,” Kenna snaps, waving down Sebastian for another drink. The guy slinks away once he meets Sebastian’s piercing green eyes and Kenna smiles gratefully at him. Though, the moment doesn’t last as she returns to watching Mary chat up the piano player.

He sees her walk up out of the corner of his eye and his fingers falter over the keys, though he doesn’t stop playing.

“I love Duke Ellington,” she says, leaning against the frame of the large piano.

“He’s one of the greats,” he replies, his eyes on her as he continues to play without fault.

“That’s impressive,” she says, motioning towards his fast moving fingers.

“I always knew I’d have to look at something much more worthwhile while playing piano someday,” he replies and she grins.

“I’m Mary,” she says, putting out her hand, then laughing when he looks at it and back to the keys.

“Francis,” he replies. “I’d shake your hand but then I’d never wash it. And, well, that would be problematic.”

Mary throws her head back in laughter at the line and thinks that she quite likes the way his eyes crinkle in a smile, how the blue seems a bit bluer. She resolves to watch him smile much more tonight. 

“Half the boys in this bar couldn’t get away with that one,” she says.

“I’m not half the boys,” he shoots back.

To hide her smile, she changes the subject. “So, you’re new here.”

“I’m helping out a friend,” he replies, jutting his head towards the bar where Sebastian is leaning towards Kenna. “Their usual one is out sick.”

“That’s too bad,” she says, resisting the urge to laugh, “I could get used to you.”

Francis doesn’t say anything to that as the song finishes. Mary claps with the rest of them, a smile on her face and her eyes trained on Francis’s.

 

* * *

 

 

_July 1942 // London, England_

“Mary, you’re needed over here,” Dr. Wright says, gesturing to Mary without looking up.

“I’ll be right back, all right, Thomas? Just keep stretching your knee and I’ll come later with the crutches,” she says to the patient beside her. He nods to her and she smiles reassuringly before setting down the vial of painkillers and walking towards Dr. Wright.

“What can I help with, Doctor?” she asks, wiping her hands on her apron.

“There’s a new company coming in tomorrow and I’m going to need you taking extra shifts to help out,” he says as he scribbles on his clipboard.

“What time do you want me to come in?” she asks, already preparing for the little sleep she’s going to get in the next few days. It doesn’t help that air raids go off throughout the night. Mary doubts she’s gotten more than five hours of sleep since the war started.

“Six thirty,” he says as he walks away from her. Mary nods once and turns around, facing the crowded of room full of injured soldiers and bustling nurses, trying to figure out the next problem she has to tackle. 

She doesn’t know when the sound of the alarm will ever not send a chill through her bones but she can tell that it’s not going to soon. She follows the other nurses outside to the bunker, helping Thomas as she does so. There’s a pang in her heart when she thinks of those who can’t walk, who they will find when they come back aboveground and what new tragedies await.

“Sometimes it feels like this will never end,” Sybil says as she rubs her eyes tiredly and sits down on one of the bunks against the wall of the bunker. “I can’t even imagine a life outside of it.”

“I don’t think anyone can,” Mary says and they wait for the cacophony above them to cease, if only for a short while.

“It hit close to home that time,” Sybil says, looking at the smoking buildings around them after they come aboveground.

“It always does,” Mary adds and they resume their work.

 

 

 

“I’m looking for Mary Stuart,” a voice says behind her and Mary turns away from the supply cupboard to see a tall, albeit thin, soldier standing behind her, his hat tucked between his arm, and curly hair looking shorted than it used to.

“Francis,” she breathes, remembering a short and skinny six year old who threw sand at her at the beach. “You’re a solider.”

“You’re a nurse,” he shoots back, looking her up and down. She ducks her head and blushes.

“Well, apparently women can’t go to the front, so I’m doing what I can,” she says, shrugging.

“If you could go to the front, we’d beat the Germans faster than you can say peace treaty,” he says good-naturedly. Mary can’t help but notice his bright eyes aren’t as bright as they were when they were young, he has a bit of a five o’clock shadow and there are wrinkles around his eyes, though neither of them are even thirty yet. Something tugs at her heartstrings when she remembers chasing him up the stairs at his parents’ manor.

_“Francis is a girl’s name_.”

“You grew,” he says and she knows he remembers teasing her about being taller though he’s a year younger.

“Yes, people tend to do that,” she says but a part of her wonders if he’s not talking about her height. There’s a comfortable silence between them before she asks softly, “When do you go back?”

“Two days,” he says, his voice more serious. Mary ignores the plunging of her heart. “I heard from Sebastian that you were working in a hospital in London. I thought I would drop by.”

“Have you heard about him and Kenna?” she asks, trying to sound normal.

“Yes, everyone’s very happy for them,” he replies, pretending that no one is thinking there’s a reason they’re getting married so quickly.

“Mary! Private Galloway needs your assistance,” Sybils voice carries across the room and Mary smiles apologetically to Francis.

“Duty calls,” she says and knows she isn’t imagining the disappointment in his eyes.

“Write to me,” he says suddenly, pulling a pen and paper out of his pocket and scribbling down an address. “I can’t promise how long the letters will take to get to me but I can promise I’ll write back.”

Mary nods because speaking is too hard, thinking of him squatting in trenches as men die around him and thinking of him being one of those men. She accepts the paper and returns the favor, writing down her address as well.

“I’ll see you again,” he says as he takes the paper gingerly.

“’Course you will,” she says as she tucks the paper in her pocket, knowing it will burn a hole in there all day until she takes it out in her tiny, shared flat and writes to him.

 

* * *

 

 

_December 2082 :: Orleans, France_

“Mary?” Francis’s nurse pokes her head into Mary’s study. “He’s awake and asking for you.”

“Thank you, Claire,” she says, immediately putting down her book. Claire helps her stand and take her to the cane leaning against the wall. Mary takes it, limping across the room to her shared one with Francis for more than fifty years.

“Mary,” he says when she walks in. Claire helps her sit down in the chair beside their bed and Mary smiles at her in thanks. She takes Francis’s hand in hers, still thinking of the small and chubby one she used to hold, though this one is veined and wrinkled. He feels like he’s about to break in her hands.

“How are you feeling?” she asks softly, rubbing circles with her thumb on his hand.

“Do you remember the day we told my mother we were getting married?” he asks, not answering her question. Mary smiles softly, holding back the tears and nods as she answers the question she answers every day.

“Of course I do, darling,” she says and lets him recount the story as he does every day. The doctors say it helps to have an anchor, something to go back to when remembering what he for breakfast is hard.

“I told my mother it was worth it,” he says as the story draws to a close. “And it was, I knew it when I saw you walking down the aisle towards me, when you held Anne for the first time, when we danced at James’s wedding. Every moment for the rest of my life…I love you.”

_For the rest of my life._

“His condition is worsening, his brain deteriorating. We’re not sure exactly how long he has left, but we know it will be a matter of weeks. Maybe even days,” the doctor had said. “Would you like to make any arrangements?”

Mary had looked up at him, tears in her eyes and knowing that she should say yes, they should find a coffin, call the family, plan the funeral, decide open or closed casket.

But instead she shakes her head.

“They’ll be time for that later,” she had said. The doctor—he was young, barely forty—had looked at her with a mixture of pity and sadness. “Please.”

“Whatever you wish, Ms Stuart,” he said, nodding.

“It’s Ms Valois, actually,” she said before raising herself out of the chair and leaving the office.

That was a week ago and Mary feels like there’s only a thin string holding her together as she waits for the worst. She settles herself into the chair beside their bed, picking up her book as she always does after pressing her lips to his forehead softly.

 

 

Francis Valois dies on the fifth of December. It’s snowing when the beeping sounds and it’s snowing when Claire pulls Mary away and it’s snowing when Mary is placed on her bed, her face impassive and it’s snowing when Mary closes her eyes and tries to fall asleep in a world without her husband.

 

 

“Sixty years is a long time,” Claire says, leaning in the door of their—hers now—room.

“It didn’t feel very long,” Mary says. Claire smiles sadly and picks up her bag, mumbling something about being back tomorrow morning at nine as she always does.

Mary turns and looks at their bed, the bed they shared for sixty years. There’s still a dent in the bed where Francis lay, slightly deeper than hers on the left. She shuffles over to his side of the bed and sits down, picking up the pillow and bringing it to her face. She’s hit with the smell of pine and feels dizzy as it fills her lungs. She nearly gasps into it, eager to cling to this one thing he left behind. It smells as though he never left, like he’s still here and not growing cold in a coffin somewhere too far away from her. Always too far away from her.

She closes her eyes and wonders if the things they say about past lives are true.


End file.
